


monstrous malady

by Oshii



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Graphic Depictions of Illness, Peter being nice, Sickfic, Vomiting, emeto, light implied romancek, sick Roman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 17:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15539322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshii/pseuds/Oshii
Summary: Roman discovers that upirism does not protect against stomach bugs. Peter assists. H/C, emeto, light romancek.





	monstrous malady

**Author's Note:**

> I had a couple requests following "split skin" to switch it up and write Peter taking care of a sick Roman. So here you go!

In the darkest dregs of Roman’s subconscious, he never dreamed he’d call out for his mother.

But, as he suffered through the throes of another awful, sweeping surge of nausea that bent him over the toilet - panting in dreadful anticipatory breaths, heart pounding in his chest - he wished for her cool hands to wipe the chilled sweat from his neck and face, and her low voice to murmur soothing comforts as he retched.

 _There, there, darling,_ Olivia might have whispered, smoky and feathered _. Mother’s here._

“ _Fffuck_ -” choked Roman, gasping for air after a fulsomely violent heave. Fluids dripped from every orifice on his face. Tears streamed from his eyes, and bile burned his nose. He lurched forward with another retch, coughing harshly at the end, trying to breathe.

After the latest round of heaves abated, Roman spit the foul taste from his mouth and curled up on the floor where he’d been previously attempting to doze between bouts of sickness. His back and sides ached from throwing up, and lying on the cold tile floor wasn’t helping, but the coolness felt good against his clammy skin and he wanted the security of the toilet nearby.

He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered, reaching a shaking hand out and pulling the closest towel around his shoulders like a makeshift blanket. He closed his eyes, moaning at the vertigo, and willed sleep to come. _Please,_ he begged silently. _Just wanna sleep._

“Mr. Godfrey?”

Also within the darkest dregs of Roman’s subconscious lived the festering hatred he harbored for his childhood nanny (it rivaled the maleficence reserved solely for his mother).

Tight, dour, and dreary as she was, Anna could not help but stop in the doorway on her walk past the bathroom, concerned at the state of her charge, unable to squash old nannying habits.

“Mr. Godfrey?” She repeated. “Shall I call an ambulance? You’ve been sick for quite some time, and you can’t seem to keep anything down.”

Roman willed the last vestiges of his strength to open his eyes, push himself up on his elbows, and level Anna with a weary glare. “No. I’ll be fine. Go.”

The withered stone of the old nanny’s face cracked into something like matronly compassion. “But, Mr. Godfrey, if you could see the state you’re in-”

He felt the stirrings of nausea again, but pushed himself up all the way to lean against the toilet. “Another glass of water, please. I’m fine. Go.”

Anna pursed her nigh invisible lips into an even thinner line, but relented, uncurling from the doorway and retreating down the hall.

Roman waited till her footsteps faded from hearing until he collapsed, huffing out a groan, and cupping a palm over his aching belly. His eyes closed at the next wave of nausea, uttering a moan that fluttered with exhausted emotion. God, he didn’t wanna do this anymore. The hell had gotten into him, anyway? Not like it was food poisoning. A stomach bug? Could upirs even catch those things? He struggled to recall Olivia ever falling ill, from anything, ever.

His phone buzzed.

With a furrow of his brow, Roman cautiously peered through heavy lids at his phone where it lay perched on the rim of the bathtub. He vaguely recalled texting Peter a few hours ago, specifically and poetically about wanting to die, but he hadn’t anticipated a reply, as Peter was supposed to be at his new job.

He languidly stretched out an arm and retrieved his phone, glancing at the message:

 _09:45: That sucks. flu = no fuckin fun._  Followed by the green faced emoji, and another message.

_11:15: You ok asshole?_

As Roman held his phone, it abruptly buzzed and lit up again, and he scrolled down to view the newest message:

_12:46: hey I know its just that decrepit old nanny of yours watching over you. want me to swing by with gatorade or some shit?_

Unsure of how to respond to Peter’s sudden kindness, Roman set the phone down and lowered his head into the cradle of his arms, resting over the toilet. Some sensible part of his forebrain told him he ought not to subject his (only) friend to this monstrosity of a malady – but the desire to be comforted won out, even if it came with teasing and ridicule from a buddy.

(Not that he expected Peter to make fun of him in his current state. Peter, from what Roman had witnessed, was actually pretty good when it came to comforting people).

With trembling thumbs, he returned Peter’s text.

_12:48: yeah. Sounds good. The orange kind if you’re gonna do it._

That effort exhausted the last of his strength, and he lowered himself back onto the floor to curl up and ride out the spins, phone still loosely clasped in his weak hand.

\--

_Letha was smiling at him, brilliant and white and mischievous, eyes sparkling with intent. “C’mon, Roe,” she wheedled, reaching out to pull on his blazer sleeve. “Let’s ride the carousel!”_

_The ride loomed ahead in the distance, brightly adorned with a thousand shining bulbs and festooned with golden trim. Calliope music wound a looping thread through the night air, and the gilded ponies slid up and down in a gentle rhythm as the carousel turned round and round. Roman felt dizzy just looking at the contraption; the last swig from his flask had hit him hard._

_“How bout the skeeball tent again, cuz?” He suggested, shifting the giant teddy bear that had suddenly come to rest on his shoulders, hugging either side of his head with its stuffed legs. He didn’t remember Letha winning the thing. “Bet I can beat you this time.”_

_Letha spread her arms wide and twirled a giddy circle, smiling carefree and coyly at him. “Skeeball’s boring,” she declared. “You promised you’d take me on the carousel!”_

_Did he? He didn’t remember. He stepped forward, clutching both legs of the giant bear, the toy feeling quite heavy upon his shoulders. He wanted to pitch the thing, but it clung fast to him. Letha got what Letha wanted; she was a Godfrey, after all, and a pretty one to boot. They were all pretty. The blessing and the curse, the birthright of the family. His stomach lurched, and his gait was unsteady. He stumbled, struggling to keep up with Letha._

_She turned to smile at him again, and blood oozed from between her teeth, blooming crimson from her eyeballs and running in streaming rivulets down her face. “C’mon, Roman!” She gurgled, bright red bubbles of blood shooting out from between her lips as she spoke._

_He froze, feeling the world tilt on its axis, tasting his rising gorge in his throat. Horror surged through his veins like acid, and his eyes bulged. He was so dizzy. His heart pounded in his chest. “Letha?! Letha!” He screamed at her, reaching for her, but she giggled like a little girl and skipped away from him, twirling, spinning, arms wide…_

_The bright lights of the carousel spun and spun and spun, fading to smudges and blackness._

“Mr. Godfrey?”

Anna’s voice, raspy and brittle from somewhere above him. Had she come to his rescue?

Roman jerked awake with a sharp gasp, heart thudding, adrenaline surging through the vertigo. He looked up to see her in the doorway, one hand clasped around her dangling rosary beads. “What the fuck?” He croaked, still trying to get his bearings. His head pulsed with pounding pain. Then, because it was always the first thing he asked upon waking, “what time is it?”

“Half past one, Mr. Godfrey,” she replied crisply, nervously fingering the beads. “You have a caller. That gypsy boy is downstairs asking after you. I don’t think it should be prudent to allow him upstairs, in your condition.”

Roman furrowed his brow. “Peter? Peter’s downstairs…” he trailed off, stupidly – with how many other gypsy boys did he associate? – and groaned through a languorous wave of nausea. “Let him up,” he mumbled. “’s okay…’s Peter.”

Anna regarded him with unveiled concern. “Roman,” she began boldly, “you really ought to let me call someone. You need medical assistance.”

Through the twin pounding of his heart and brain, aching and pulsating through his periphery, Roman managed a slitted glare, tilting toward her. “What I _need_ ,” he rasped dully, “is Peter.”

“Roman.”

That was Peter, edging into view from the doorway, heedless of Anna’s sudden and ferocious glare (she rather resembled a vulture, all craggy facial lines and sharp nose and no lips).

Roman’s head cleared, then, and his heart picked up speed for a new reason entirely. “Hey,” he croaked mustering up the stamina for a slight wave.  “’M sick.”

Peter regarded him with serious scrutiny. “I see that. It catching?”

With a shrug, Roman rested his back against the tub, closing his eyes once more. “Prolly. C’mon in.”

Peter heeded Roman’s request, edging past a glaring Anna to join him beside the bathtub. In his hands was a plastic shopping bag, likely from the convenience store by the tow garage.

“I got the orange kind,” he declared, holding the prized bottle aloft, to which Roman moaned. “S’posed to be good for you. Electrolytes and all that shit.”

With weary scrutiny, Roman eyed the bottle of orange colored sports drink. “Don’t think it’ll stay down,” he mumbled. Then, as if an afterthought, he looked at Anna still lingering in the hall. “You can go now,” he dismissed. “Stop hovering.”

As she skulked out of view, Peter furrowed his brow. “You should be nicer to your nanny,” he admonished, half-jokingly. “God knows _I_ wouldn’t put up with you from diapers to Lambos.”

They shared a brief chuckle as Peter settled in on the bathroom floor, unearthing the contents of his grocery bag. Aside from the Gatorade, he’d brought a bottle of Pepto and some crackers. “Didn’t know how courageous you were feeling,” he explained to Roman’s look of abhorrence. “I always prefer to puke with something on my stomach.”

The statuesque planes of Roman’s face rearranged into a theatrical gag at Peter’s descriptions. Sweat marred his complexion, glistening in the bathroom light, and he shifted preemptively. “You’re a blessing,” he ground out sardonically. “Truly, Peter. Thanks.”

“Hey, I faked sick myself to come see your ass,” Peter replied. “You better thank me. Templar’s pissed.”

Roman breathed a steadying huff as he righted himself, head pounding and spinning. “I’ll send him a note on Godfrey letterhead. Better than a doctor’s note.” The edge of his mouth pulled up into a half smirk. “I’ll have Pryce sign off on it.”

Peter smiled at that, but it faded a little as he watched Roman’s expression fade to whitish green. “You’re a good man, Godfrey.”

His hesitancy was reaffirmed when Roman responded by leaning forward and grabbing the toilet bowl. Peter set down the bottle he was holding and assumed charge, his role in this production coming instinctively after cleaning up the aftermath of Destiny’s astral projections.

 Beneath his hand, Roman’s back heaved over the bowl, shoulders arching with a deep gag. “Easy,” he murmured. “’s all right. I gotcha.”

The shakes overtook Roman, then, and he shuddered with nausea-heavy pants, his coughs echoing inside the toilet bowl. Peter began to rub his back, unconcerned with the intimacy of the action, feeling his own stomach twist in revolted sympathy. His rings glittered in the light as his hand smoothed slow circles on the quivering slope of Roman’s shoulders.

“It’s okay,” he reassured Roman, voice low. “Go ahead. You’ll feel better.”

The trepidation holding Roman back shattered, and his trembling seized abruptly into a lurch, his whole torso heaving over the bowl as the next wrenching gag brought up a flood of stomach acid. He gasped and retched again, a cacophonous symphony of sickness with Peter his only audience (but a very attentive and polite one, at that).

“Jesus,” Peter winced, stilling his motions to provide support as Roman suffered through lingering, pervasive dry heaves. “You’re gonna tear yourself inside out. Calm down. Just breathe.”

Roman drew in a shuddering breath, blinking away glistening tears that clung to his eyelashes. He reached up with a shaking hand as if to wipe his mouth, but was stopped by Peter.

“Here,” he instructed, offering Roman a wad of toilet paper. “Use this. Less gross.”

Roman used it, uttering a low moan of disgust as he dropped the paper into the filthy bowl. “Fuck me,” he groaned. “…hate this. ‘m dying, Peter.”

“No, you’re not,” Peter reassured him, giving his back a final pat. “You’re just sick.”

With a final spit to clear the vestiges of sickness from his mouth, Roman flushed the toilet and settled back against the bathtub, one hand slipping wearily over his stomach. He closed his eyes. “Hurts,” he muttered, brow furrowing. “Dunno what’s wrong…”

Peter eyed the toilet distastefully, wondering if this was contagious, then looked over at Roman. “Probably picked up a bug or something,” he told his friend. “That’s all. You’ll live. Maybe.”

At that tone, one of Roman’s eyes cracked open, and he huffed derisively. “Fuck you.”

Peter smirked, casting his gaze downward, feeling suddenly awkward in the post-puke silence. They sat together for a few minutes, Peter allowing Roman to calm down following his exertions. He watched as Roman recovered, his chest rising and falling, sweat shining in the bright light, and was suddenly struck (once again) by how fucking beautiful Roman was, even in sickness.

It wasn’t fucking fair.

“You’re like a work of art,” Peter blurted out, his heart pounding, and he scrambled for cover. “Some kind of sculpture done by the old masters, a marble tribute to encroaching plague death.” There, that was less gay, maybe?

Both of Roman’s eyes opened, and he slowly tilted his head to stare at Peter through heavy lids. “Truly an astute observation,” he muttered. “Didn’t know art history was part of your gypsy upbringing.”

“Mom homeschooled me between kidnapping babies and telling travelers’ fortunes,” Peter quipped. He clapped his hands on his knees, pushed himself to his feet, and offered Roman his hand. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

Roman gazed up at Peter through a hazy sheen of exhaustion and was struck by déjà vu. Memories of holding hands and pacing around a ritual circle came flooding back to him – _the cat, the fucking cat, Peter’s face is gone, so much blood._

He took Peter’s hand, accepting his friend’s offer of help.

“To my bedchamber, then,” he mumbled, folding in beside Peter. “I am feeling quite peckish.”

He felt the low vibration of Peter’s chuckle in his chest, and let Peter fold an arm around him. “All right,” Peter murmured. “But call me Jenkins, and I’m pushing your ass down the stairs.”

Roman smiled a real smile at that as they stepped out into the hall. “Deal.”

 


End file.
